Paint me in Scarlet
by Sunflowerprinting
Summary: "The moment of inspiration was what he lived for. His brush flying across the canvas like a bird released from its cage, wings spread in feathers of color and emotion that covered the white sky. It was electric, exhilarating." Spamano AU Current rating T, might move up to M later.
1. Chapter 1

The moment of inspiration was what he lived for. His brush flying across the canvas like a bird released from its cage, wings spread in feathers of color and emotion that covered the white sky. It was electric, exhilarating. Lovino would pause only to refill his palate, smearing the edges of the tubes of paint almost violently. He did everything almost violently, it was just his nature. And when the image was completed, yet another masterpiece of light and dark, hard and soft, his hand would drop heavily to his side and the energy he had been so bursting with only moments before would rush out in a single breath. The inspiration would be used, taken advantage of like a gullible sap in the street, and Lovino would be left exhausted, wishing there was more to give, waiting for the next moment it chose to strike.

Artists were meant to live like lightning. He had always thought this, never planned on surviving past thirty. There was something so depressing, pitiable about those people who kept trying into their middle ages, as though they really believed they had been overlooked, they were talented. If someone would just _see_ their art, they would make it. It didn't work like that. He wouldn't end up like them, their disappointment so heavy it tugged their skin down into folds and wrinkles, aging them prematurely. No, Lovino knew he would die before he let that happen. It wouldn't be intentional, no late night struggles, no friends or family calling on him with subdues tones and worried eyes. It was just the way of things. A foot pressed a little too heavy on the accelerator on a twisting road, a few too many glasses of absinthe. Lovino didn't get drunk, on principle, but there was a first time for everything. A first, and a last.

Lovino couldn't remember a time when everything around him hadn't smelled slightly of paint. His home as a child, where his brother and grandfather would dip brushes so delicately in the pebbles of color, pressing them to the paper as though it would shatter if they moved too fast or too rough, it had always been tinged with that scent. He could never paint that way, there was too much emotion, too much violence inside him. He hadn't started til later, not until he left that place. The sunlight was too bright there, the rooms too open and he couldn't breathe. Sometimes he wondered if his brother kept the note he dropped on his pillow the night he climbed out the window and didn't look back. He assumed his grandfather had burned the other one. It had been 3 years since then. How things changed.

The place he lived now wasn't bright. It was a narrow apartment, pressed up between two brick buildings that overshadowed it in both height and status, and as a result, his own space always had a bite of cold and damp in the air. Now, Lovino stood on the stoop outside his window, breathing clouds of steam into the stinging cold and pretending it was cigarette smoke instead. He closed his eyes, imagining the warmth of the paper roll in his hand, how the the glow would burn with such intensity before fizzling out into the darkness. His brother Feliciano had cried when he caught Lovino smoking, bawled about how he didn't want him to die of lung cancer. Lovino had smacked him and called him stupid, but stubbed out the cigarette anyway. He couldn't even finish the pack, when he saw Feliciano's face in every puff. He shuffled slightly on the stoop, hands shoved in his pockets for warmth. He had been gone three years already, those things didn't matter anymore. He meant to buy another pack, it was just that for whatever reason he hadn't gotten around to it yet. He scowled, his eyes open now, squinting into the darkness at the wall of brick, so close he could touch it if he leaned out just a little. Abruptly he turned, slamming the window closed behind him so hard he could feel it rattle. By the pounding from the ceiling he could tell the neighbors heard it too. The familiar bubble of frustration started to well up, could practically hear the rattle of the pot before the water overflowed and steamed off of the hot burner. It was time to take a shot of absinthe and fall asleep on the floor of his sparsely furnished place. He was surrounded by the paintings he poured his soul into, and he could hear the shuffle of the upstairs neighbor. And yet why did he feel so fucking alone.

 _Hi there~_

 _I don't know where this came from exactly, I've been reading a lot of amazing fanfictions recently, and I guess I felt inspired haha_

 _I don't know where it's going yet, but I can say that it will be Spamano. Other than that? *shrugs* we'll see what happens!  
If any of you who read this (if anyone reads it?) have any comments or suggestions, or want to see it continue, I would love reviews. Thanks!_


	2. Chapter 2

The condensation that fogged the glass, and caused little drops of artificial rain to run down the inside of the cooler was mesmerizing. From his place on the cold linoleum, Antonio could see the liquid racing tracks, droplets propelling faster and faster downwards until they collided, and a new race began. The sound of harsh footsteps jolted his focus outwards, until he could see his own reflection in the glass. The way his legs were folded, the red smock reflecting harshly off the white and off-white checkered floor, the cans of soup and beans spread out like child's blocks around him. His lids lowered momentarily, his face caught off guard by the bloom of emotion that engulfed him for mere seconds, before he smothered it. It was a fine job. It paid the bills. He would not complain about this.

Antonio was passionate about a lot of things. He loved music and dancing, the feeling of moving weightlessly to a rhythm you could feel inside of you before it even passed through your ears. He loved cooking, how the flavors could meld and melt together like bodies to a tango. He loved people, how their emotions would play across their features before they realized it, how they felt so deeply, spoke so strongly, and how they _created_. He used to listen to his mother describe her hometown to him, the spanish that flowed so lyrically from her lips encircling him in images of brightly colored roofs and clothes, women with flower carts who would catch their scarves on the rose thorns and sell tulips for pocket change. He could almost smell the way the scent of dry earth would mingle with the spicy foods wafting from open shutters. He had always wanted to go there and see for himself. His mother would never take him, but he toyed with the thought of bringing her ashes with him, scattering them in the winds of her homeland. It brought him enough peace that he did not mind when the manager arrived, heels and tongue even harsher than the cold floor, to remind him of his city of cans, still built up and neglected.

The walk back to his apartment drained him. It always did. The way the shadows played off the buildings, and everyone who passed him seemed so tense, as though waiting for him to pull out a knife as something he could never get used to. Yet the longer he spent in the city, meandering through the back streets the connected the supermarket to the apartment like a hedge maze of concrete, the more he felt his shoulders grow stiff with every passing figure. Every man was a thief, every woman a ploy. Antonio wasn't born to think like this, but the air here was tainted with prejudice, and even he who breathed so deeply with life was not immune. Tonight was no different, and when at last he pulled himself above the top step of the building, flinching at the way it creaked and sagged beneath his weight, the eviction notice plastered to his door could not even phase him. There was silence as he read it, mentally counting back the months, the paychecks, the rent. And then there was the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place behind him as he shut the door.

 _Thank you so much for reading, and reviewing (respectively)! Still not totally sure where it's going, but I sure am enjoying the writing process at least.  
I think it will go alternatively between chapters following Lovino and Antonio, so Lovino is up next! I hope you like it!_


	3. Chapter 3

Lovino did not go to the park to paint. It was not beautiful, or enigmatic. The trees were squat, sickly branches spreading outwards like desperate pleas now that the leaves had fallen. The skeletons of birds whose feathers had been plucked, now standing grotesque and pitiful. The fountain whose water flowed in bursts and sputters in the summer was now silent, a tomb like figure in gray stone. The only people who wandered the desolate paths were the ones with dogs, or depression. Lovino considered himself, his talent, above it all. But sometimes, in the late afternoon hours, he would find himself there, sitting hunched against the biting wind, running his fingers over the rough surface of the dead fountain, waiting for nothing to happen. It was impulse that brought him there, a need to be out of that claustrophobic space hollowed out between the two brick buildings. It became an extension of his own mind, the shadows and the damp playing dirty tricks and old memories. It began to reek of loneliness, and that was when Lovino found himself pulling his heavy coat on over a sweater, and emerging into the city. When enough time had passed that the stinging in his skin had changed to numbness, and his fingers had grown stiff with cold, he would slowly stand from the edge of the fountain, stretch his back out and head down that same street he came. He would pass a gas station, pausing to scan the list of cigarette brands in the window. At some point he planned to stop in, scowl at the cashier as the heat made his cheeks and nose burn like fire, and point to his choice of toxic relief. But he would think to the change in his pockets, the bills snatched in ones and fives from his work, and he would exhale a breath he didn't know he had been holding as he started walking again. The timing wasn't right yet, he didn't have the money for it today, he was saving for paint, for bills, for...something else.

It would be evening by the time he got back to apartment, the shadows drenched in blue and purple hues even longer than usual. The white button-down he pulled on would be wrinkled just a bit, a sheet of paper someone gripped too hard, but he would smooth it out with his palms and no one would notice. It was the only time he paid attention to his appearance at all. He looked smart, his hair slicked back almost completely but for that one curl that refused to lay flat. Lovino sneered at the offending strand in the mirror, and thought it was a bit too much like his personality for its own good. It would get cut down like that. Like him. He would pull on a sweater or a jacket before sliding into his oversized coat, knowing that by the time he was done the city would be at her coldest. The dark sky would be unchanged, the light cast off by the streetlamps somehow hollow and ghostly. But to walk alone under those lamps and feel the air freeze your flesh through the layers was so poignant, Lovino could almost convince himself he didn't hate it.  
The job was easy, and he was suited to it. A sparkle in his eye to make the ladies order another drink, sweet words dripped like honey over the counter until no woman and narry a man wanted to leave the bar. But he was rough enough to stop anyone getting drunk and handsy. It was no classy establishment, the stools were hard, the smell was stale. The light was low, but more to hide the stains than for any attempt at atmosphere. Lovino was hired to be the sprig of mint and chocolate on a motel pillow, and he delivered. It was only once the bar was closed that he let the tension ease out of him, and the harsh words that felt so natural tumbled over themselves, not directed at anyone but the nuts on the counter and the drinks on the floor.

By the time the locks were turned behind him, the wayward drunks would be long gone, wandering the streets in search of somewhere to collapse. The walkways would echo under his footsteps, and the wind would carry a nostalgic scent of somewhere he hadn't been in years. Sometimes he would close his eyes, and just let his feet carry him forwards through the night, all sense of direction slowly dissipating. Just underneath the thin layer of panic steadily rising to the surface, like scum on a broth, there would be a sense of thrill. He would stumble, or hit something eventually. Occasionally, he would step off the curb without noticing, and a rush of light followed by the blare of a horn would be what jolted him back to reality. With no one around though, he allowed his lips to curve upwards, and for whatever reason, these were the moments Lovino felt least alone.

 _Thank you so much to happysamy! It made me so happy to see you posted on both chapters so far . I still don't want to guarantee any sort of schedule with this, cause my schedule is kind of indeterminate at the moment but! I will try not to let this fall to the wayside! Still don't quite know where it's going . oh well, thanks for reading!_


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes Antonio had bad days. He would not know until his groggy eyes eased open, his skin touched the air, his joints creaked with the movement of time. But this morning, when his toes touched the icy wood he could tell his tongue would be bloody and bitten by the words he could not say by the end of his shift. Sunlight streamed in the tall windows, spilling like a glass of orange juice over the floor. Antonio loved the sun, but on days like this even it's joyous yellow rays would not be enough to paint over the melancholy blue that drenched him, seeping in like ink to stain his bones. On days like this, his weight doubled, and it was a struggle to hoist his arms up to dress him, his legs up to move him, his head up to see. He did not even remember the notice on his door until it was slamming behind him a second time, and he peeled it off to hide away in a coat pocket. He would think about it later. He would think about everything later. He was already late.

There was a sort of endless monotony about the market. The songs that broadcasted over waves of static were on a loop, endlessly circling back around. If you spent enough time between those aisles, you would be able to hear a song twice, then another, and another. The rough scratch of velcro pricking at Antonio's ears as he put on his candied cherry red smock, the pained shriek of a cart wheel being wrenched back into place, the flicker of another fluorescent light painting everything aged. He would adjust his smile like makeup before speaking to a customer, becoming like the cup of jello on a hospital tray. A reassuring afterthought in a stressful experience. Another employee approaches, telling Antonio there's a mess in dairy and he's up. The words he doesn't say hang between them for hardly a moment before dissolving into the atmosphere, and he is alone with a mop wiping away what's left of someone's carelessness. A young man in a heavy coat stares for a moment, caramel eyes narrowed at the yellow board warning him away from the slick floor. He walks through, his boots leaving tracks of dirt in the water. It is two hours into his shift, and Antonio has already closed his eyes. This world doesn't have to exist if he doesn't see it.

When the stagnant moments have at last flowed away, and Antonio can let the glaring red of the smock fall away in favor of more soothing tones, he always goes to a different market to pick up food. Tonight should be no different, but as he stands outside the flickering neon sign of a store he'll have to backtrack from in order to reach his apartment, he can't force himself to go in. With every entrance and exit, a rush of innocuous music flows out from between the automatic doors, waves of white noise washing over his exhausted mind. His feet are already turning away, carrying him down a side street. The darkness a salve for his tired eyes, each step further from the noise of the world bringing him one step closer to the calm he had been struggling to reach since morning. It was odd that he should find an alleyway so reassuring, but after all this time it had not lost its acute familiarity. The stillness of a forgotten crevice between buildings, the cracks in the city just wide enough to fit its forgotten masses, it was just how he remembered. Leaning against the grime covered stone of some anonymous office building, facing the bare brick of another, Antonio felt something he hadn't since soon after his mother died. What he wouldn't give for a mugger to wander in, a drug dealer looking for a fresh face to ruin. The crack of his knuckles does not quite echo in this space so insulated with waste, but neither does he fail to notice the muffled sound of a body shifting on the ground. He knows it well, the soundtrack to his old haunt. These are not the same alleys he lived and breathed in, not the same ones in which he shed blood and caused it to be shed; but it may as well have been. When he looks down at the man whose face is hidden in shadow, though, cowering against the cold, he cannot will himself to move against him. The frustration ebbs to a steady pulse in the back of his head, and he shoves his fists deeply into his coat pockets, feeling the scratch of paper on one. The crumpled eviction notice is tossed forcefully onto a heap of refuse, a calling card for a weaker version of himself.

When Antonio gets back, his things are on the street, and the first glimmer of gratitude he feels today is that there are so few to be stolen in the first place.

 _To happysamy, thankyouthankyouthankyou your review absolutely made my day! You don't even know how grateful I am that there is someone who not only reads the story, but enjoys it that much (yay!). Hopefully the continuation does not fail to live up to the hype ._

 _I like posting the chapters two in relatively close timing, so the whole Lovino and Antonio perspective switch thing gets equal play. I have a better idea of what's going on with Antonio now! But still not much with -where- he's going aha we'll all find out together I guess. Thanks for reading!_


	5. Chapter 5

When the man finally emerges to the front of the room, nodding lightly to his secretary, Lovino has to peel his damp skin from the chair's leather in order to shake his hand. The high ceiling and streaming light reminds him vaguely of his grandfather's house, and the air smells faintly of pine. He is already holding the folder of work, flipping through the snapshots of Lovino's soul captured on paper like choices on a menu, his gaze pausing to linger before he licks his thumb and moves on. _Good use of color_ he comments, _How much is this one?_ By the end of the meeting, Lovino's throat is dry, but he is too on edge to pause at the water cooler before he leaves. Another nod through the window at the owner, and he is almost tripping over himself to get as far away as possible. He sags against the wall of a building a few blocks down, unsure of whether he is exhausted or riled up. But he can feel his fingers twitching, seeking something, and he needs a fucking cigarette.

The Italian isn't polite to the girl behind the register. He slams the bills on the counter, points to the pack he's had his eye on through the window for so many years, and drums his short nails against the marbled, dirty linoleum. The smell of gasoline wafting in from out front makes him gag, but he hides it with a grimace. It's not until he is halfway to the park and realizes the girl still said thank you when he left the store that he feels a prick of something like guilt, and forces it down. His hands are still shaking when he reaches the now dry fountain, and fumbles with the package for a moment before he can pull out a fresh smoke. The crinkling of the plastic around the box seems so much louder in the dead air of the park, not that Lovino notices. His eyes are wild with realization that though he finally has that cylinder between his fingers, the one that fits so perfectly, nestled between his joints as though it was molded for that very place, he has no way to light it. The leopard print lighter he bought when he was 16 is back at his grandfather's house, forgotten at the back of his dresser drawer when he was shoving necessities into a bag that wasn't technically his. He growls, hands clenching into fists against the rough stone.

"Do you need a light?" The voice is smooth, but tired. It reminds Lovino of a washed out singer, potential wasted on late nights and liquor. He could almost laugh at the irony of that judgement, remembering the row of empty bottles scattered like crumbs across the empty floor of his apartment. When he turns to face the man who spoke, he is struck by how young he is, not older than Lovino himself, surely. His eyes stand out in sharp relief to his face, shocking green against pallid flesh, washed out further in the waning winter light. He does not belong here, surrounded by a humble gathering of bags as he is. The newspaper draped casually as cloth over his leg has apartment listings spread over it, circles and exes inked over the entries like a lawless game of tic tac toe. Lovino wonders if the man smokes, and finds himself confused over the half formed hope that he doesn't.

"Does it look like I have one?" The scornful response is belied by a tremor of curiosity, and the man's lip twitches upwards. He pats down a pocket of a bag, pulling out a small container of matches. Lovino's relief that the man does not have a lighter, must not be a smoker, is unwelcome and he frowns deeply. The matches are accepted gruffly, wordlessly, and then Lovino is letting his head fall back as a stream of smoke billows from relaxed lips. The silence settles with the stench of tobacco, seeping together into the cracks and folds of their clothes.

"It will kill you, you know?" The quiet breaks jagged under the weight of the man's words, and Lovino jerks upwards. He is more angry than he has been in a long time, memories of Feliciano flooding his mind, and anger comes so much more easily than pain.

"Fuck off. No one _fucking_ asked you." He blows a cloud of smoke into the other man's face, smirking when he coughs. He expects retaliation, violent words or actions, anticipates the taste of blood on his tongue from a split lip. As long as he doesn't touch his hands, anything would be fine. It's almost disappointing when the man just shifts away, out of the murky cloud. He leans back on his hands, breathing in the clear air of a sky as gray as Lovino's billowing breath, and looks so much older than his face.

"Cancer...is a terrible thing."

Later that night, as Lovino stands on his balcony with a lit match in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other, he finds himself hesitating. And when he takes one long, deep, drag and exhales into the darkness, it is now a pair of deep green eyes that stare back at him through the cloud of smoke. The barely touched pack lie in the crevice between the two buildings, pitched off the balcony with a scream of frustration, waiting for another man to find comfort in their sirenic allure.

 _Hello there! Thank you to anyone kind enough to be reading this! We have the first meeting, and also first dialog of the whole story (no matter how minimal aha)! I would love to hear any feedback, or comments or anything on what you think thus far!_

 _Expect Antonio's chapter next~_


	6. Chapter 6

Antonio likes to come home exhausted, so that when he collapses on his narrow bed, the only thing awaiting him is sleep. But when that doesn't happen, he likes to count the people he is grateful for. Beneath their blanket of darkness, Antonio's eyes flicker from face to face, reacquainting themselves with forgotten details. The arch of Francis' nose, the haughty brow raise of Gilbert's grin. He's not alone, as he can easily say in the daylight. But when the night comes, there is more shadow through which his doubts can creep, slowly making their way to the front of his mind, cold fingers prying their way into every memory. Francis is busy now, his culinary classes keeping him away. And Gilbert...he hasn't seen Gilbert in years. Not since he moved back to Germany to be closer to his brother. Antonio is no better, he knows, working more hours than he can count in a week. He reminds himself of this, each time he finds himself reaching for the phone, tossing it back before its silence can disappoint him.

Now though, he is not stretched in a bed but a booth, the chatter of nightcrawlers and insomniacs wafting through the place on fumes of fries and coffee. A half empty cup of hot chocolate sits cooling in front of him, pushed to the middle of the greasy table so he need not worry about knocking it over when he shift. In two hours he will order another cup so the woman behind the counter does not ask him to leave, though he suspects that in the young hours of the morning there will be no paying customers to make room for. The grating sound of dishes colliding, forks clawing at faux porcelain til it screeches have become white noise to Antonio now. He has become an odd sort of regular now, his third night here providing an odd sense of familiarity. Even the tired eyes of the waitress have begun to pass over his still figure without pause.

It is not a deep sleep he seeks from this time, and instead lets his mind wander. Tonight again, he finds his thoughts settling against the stone fountain in the park. He only really remembers details of the man who sat by him, obliviously fidgeting with his cigarettes. Antonio's first impression was how angry he seemed, snarling at them like a wild thing. His second impression was how small. The oversized coat he wore dwarfed him, and though the fingers that held the paper cylinder were sturdy they felt petite. His eyes might have been green or brown, but the shade of his lips as they parted against the gray smoke is still vivid in Antonio's mind. It does not help him sleep. In another four hours, when Antonio sits up and attempts to stretch the stiffness out of his muscles, the tired waitress will set a glass of eggnog on his table and wish him a mournful Merry Christmas. He won't remember until he's halfway there that the store is closed for these two days, and he has nowhere to go.

Christmas was always one of Antonio's favorite holidays as a child. After the midnight mass was over, he and his mother would walk along the streets with the most lights, taking their time to get home. His mother would let him stay up until he couldn't keep his eyes anymore, and his head would droop to the lilting sound of spanish music quietly filling the living room. They never had much money, but Christmas day would bring with it the promise of something savory, and the sight of his mother tasting something straight from the serving spoon. Today she would smile a little brighter, and the worry lines in her face wouldn't crease so harshly against her smooth skin. The man in question now wanders up and down boulevards, where decorated wreaths hang low on wrought iron street lights. He pauses at window displays, allowing himself to stare in fascination at the toy trains that meander around bears and brightly wrapped boxes. Tonight he thinks he will not go back to the diner, but rather find a church and attend midnight mass like when he was a child. There are plenty of lights to see in this city, and plenty of songs he never forgot.

 _Thank you to both of you who reviewed the last chapter! I'm so glad you enjoyed it, reading your reviews was (always is) a major highlight for me!_

 _I have to apologize for a couple things here, one being that Antonio's chapter is rather late. And two, that very little happened in it. It's got a good bit of Christmas fluff, as fluffy as that can be considered anyway. So I'm sorry about that! If you have any tips for writing Antonio, incidentally, I'd love to hear them, because I do not have a good handle on that!_

 _Thanks for reading, and Happy Holidays~_


	7. Chapter 7

Lovino wakes up with the taste of gingerbread on his tongue, stinging lightly with it's bittersweet memory. His back aches from falling asleep on the floor, charcoal smeared sketchbook abandoned beside him. The pages drip black powder that scatters across the floor, residue staining Lovino's hands like a modern Macbeth. Sometimes he swears his palms will never be free of the sensation of graphite, the scents of oil and acrylic. The burn of spices is already fading from his mind when he sits up and remembers again where he is. In the dream, he couldn't have been older than eight, sitting at the kitchen table pressing licorice into doughy forms as Feliciano sang to the Christmas carols across wafting in from the living room radio. Mama was there, her back towards them as she swayed to the music in front of the stove, her faded apron folding into her skirts as she moved. Papa came in and took her hand, pulling her into a dance that had them spinning around the kitchen until they dissolved into laughter. It's been years since he saw that apron, packed away in a bag that no longer belongs to any of them.

The day is a blur of color. Flashes of green spark beneath his eyelids when he blinks, and shades of red and gold tease him from the corners of his eyes. He's painting, almost feverishly. When something salty drips over his lips he doesn't know if it is sweat or tears, but it doesn't matter because everything inside him, all the emotion is pouring itself out onto the canvas, and when he is done he can lean point it towards the wall and not _feel_ so damn much anymore. Hours pass this way, pulling the sun along with them until the shadows stretch again through the apartment, and Lovino has to squint to see clearly. The painting is finished with a final, tender brush stroke, receiving a touch of sentimentality that Lovino has never been able to express with people, only paint. Standing back to look, even in the shadows he can feel the warmth he has given it, a quiet glow that reminds him of things that hurt to remember but he can't bear to forget. _Feliciano would like this one._ The canvas is set aside, and for once he does not turn it away from him as it dries in the cooling air.

As exhausted as he is now, Lovino feels restless. His limbs sag into the one chair he owns, but something is making him need to get out, need to get away from whatever he has created here. The usually dismal streets are strung with fairy lights, casting color like a pastel balm over the straggling pedestrians. No one seems so tired as they usually do, when their faces are turned upwards toward the droplets of yellow and white. Everything, including Lovino, is moving more slowly, savoring the moment like a lozenge on their tongue. It's sweeter than he thought it would be, achingly so. He follows the lights up one stretch and down another, pausing when he reaches a large stone church. The windows are bright, the doors open to welcome a trickle of people, the crowds of midnight mass having already dispersed home to their families. Lovino doesn't believe in God, hasn't for a long time despite his family's Catholic roots. But he finds himself climbing the stone steps, letting his eyes find refuge in the familiar scene. A few people still sit in the pews, some with their hands clasped and heads bowed in prayer. He recognizes the one closest to him, seated in the back, as the man who gave him a match in the park two days ago. It is the curls, he thinks, that give him away as they cascade in chocolate waves over the back of his head. He doesn't seem to be praying, just sitting quietly with his hands in his pockets, staring at the illuminated alter. Lovino feels a twinge of curiosity, and it strikes him as an unfamiliar, uncomfortable sensation. All at once, the large church feels too small for the both of them, and Lovino is walking silently back down the stone steps, into the street where a fresh dusting of snow whispers the promise of a white Christmas.

 _Hello there to anyone reading! I am very excited to have this chapter up sort of ahead of time, but Antonio's chapter has the potential to come out slower, so we'll see how this timeline goes._

 _I personally hate when characters are in the same place like this but don't meet, so I'm sorry about that haha I just enjoy the solitary Christmas theme they both have going on._

 _Thanks for reading, and Happy Holidays~_


	8. Chapter 8

The apartment was even smaller than the previous one, with a single outlet and intermittently functioning water heater, but at least it was a place to stay.

Antonio had been sleeping at the diner for a week, before his paycheck came and he was able to scrounge together the down payment.

It was in a run down neighborhood, and so close to the tracks that he wondered if the drywall wouldn't crumble each time the rumbling locomotive left the building quaking in it's boots. That was the only reason he had been able to afford it.

Upon going to the post office to register the change of address, he was handed a postcard that had gotten lost in more places than he had been himself, before reaching him. Francis wished him a Merry Christmas from his family's home in Bordeaux, and Antonio smiled at the sight of his old friend's looped cursive hinting at reunions, and romance in the New Year.

The snow that veiled the city like a virgin bride has melted into dirty water, making muddy puddles in the sidewalks.

Antonio squats behind the grocery building, tossing pebbles into the miniature pond that had formed in one of the pavement's gaping potholes. He shivers slightly in the winter air, but nothing would keep him from spending his remaining seven minutes of break time outside. The sun is out, his clothes are fresh, and for the first time in a long time he feels like he can breathe again. When he closes his eyes to inhale, the exhaust fumes from the delivery truck mingling with the lingering crispness of snow fills his chest, the burning reminding him that he is alive.

Regardless of how close the rent is to being due, Antonio cannot help but revel in the time he gets when his shift ends early. He has never been one to worry about things he cannot control.

It feels like walking home with a handful of stolen change, a penny per moment of sunlight he's outside for. Antonio has always loved the sun.

He pauses by a window, a store that's usually closed by the time he passes, and sees familiar lips pursed in irritation. It's not exactly surprise that he feels, just a jolt at something out of place, though who is he to judge that. The green eyed man finds himself laughing at the expression on the other's face, and wonders lightheartedly if he scowled so much his face got stuck like that. A flash to those lips, open after the first drag of a cigarette, and he realizes no; that's not true.

The store is a gallery, he sees when he steps back, an expensive looking wooden sign swinging in the breeze of traffic. Its presence is unobtrusive, not spilling it's paints over the sidewalk like vainglorious vomit. The windows are relatively bare, only some subdued posters for art shows left plastered to the glass.

When Antonio lets his eyes wander about the room, though, he sees it is spacious and clean. Colorful canvases are displayed in order, soft lighting casting halos in all the right places.

Antonio knows nothing about art.

It seems the tan stranger does though, as he gestures towards this piece, and another. Antonio has realized he is staring, through a window at a man he hardly knows, but he can't bring himself to care. Maybe the other pedestrians will assume he is absorbed by the paintings. Maybe it is conceited of him to assume they would notice at all.

It seems only a moment before the man inside is nodding stiffly at the pale blond behind the desk. Antonio had hardly noticed him until they were shaking hands. The fleeting second before he pulls open the door with a rattle is when waiting for him becomes a conscious decision.

He doesn't see Antonio at first. His gaze is elsewhere, focused firmly on objects he can grasp in shaking fingers. He pulls out a package of something, and Antonio has a vague flash of hope that he will need another light. _What kind of smoker doesn't carry a lighter._

It's a pack of gum.

When their eyes meet, it is because Antonio is blocking the shorter man's path, and half formed profanities are already spilling from between those lovely lips.

"Watch where the _fuck_ you're going, asshole, what're you bli-?" His eyes are definitely hazel. Suddenly the memory of the day in the park comes to Antonio so much more vividly, like the page of a coloring book brought to life in shades of green and pink.

"My apologies. I must have been distracted." Antonio laughs for no reason, half expecting to be struck by a smaller hand and pushed past. When the sound dies out, though, he is being stared at through narrowed eyes.

"Do I know you?" Suspicion pushes at the edges of the question, but Antonio feels inexplicably overjoyed regardless. The smile he gives is not as wide as the ones he is paid for, but every inch of it is sincere.

"I gave you a match in the park." _Is that too vague? Will he think I'm creepy? Will he remem-_

"Oh yeah…." _Yes!_ Something about the way he scowls and purses his lips makes Antonio fixate on them. They plump up like ripe apricots, ready to be nibbled and bitten.

"What do you want." It is distinctly not a question. More a verbal shove out of the way than anything else. Antonio has always been good at bouncing back though.

"Oh, I just saw you through the window here, and thought I'd introduce myself! I must have forgotten at the park the other day." Another laugh, to set the tone, though it seems to slip through the crack in the sidewalk between them. "I'm Antonio! Carriedo. Antonio Carriedo." He remembers part way through that people don't like when he leaves off his last name, as though he is hiding an identity. Though really, he just can't seem to make it a habit.

Those lips are becoming apricots again.

"Lovino."

The name is spit out like an offending pit at the taller man's feet. Antonio's beam makes it seem like a prized possession just won.

 _I am sorry to keep anyone who might have been waiting! For a while I honestly had no idea where I was going with it (plot wise, I still don't), BUT it's a little easier to keep it running now they've made real contact. Only took 8 chapters aha..._

 _Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! All of them made me really happy to read!_

 _And especially thanks to_ The Forgotten Traveller, _I tried to work on the format in this chapter, I hope it helps! And I am always open to any feedback!_

 _I hope you all were well over the holidays, and thanks again for reading!_


	9. Chapter 9

"My apologies. I must have been distracted." The man laughs like a child. His mouth opens too wide, the sound is too free. It does not follow the lines in his face, but scrawls across them in colorful bold.

Lovino finds it, _him,_ illegible.

He recognizes him. The eyes give it away, that green that doesn't quite fit any shade Lovino's ever swept across a canvas. The same shade that catches in his throat every time he goes to ask for another packet of cigarettes at the store.

He bought gum instead. The plastic shade of mint is oddly soothing in its lifelessness.

"Do I know you?" There's no reason for this toying question. But Lovino is stubborn. He will not admit to anything first. There is a sense of relief when he hears the other remembers him, and there is an excuse not to move past as though they are just another pair of faceless bodies in the crowd. Not that he would give anything away to this stranger.

"Oh yeah…."

"What do you want." He purses his lips, wishing there was something other than gum to settle between them. He has remembered where he is, standing outside the gallery. It went well, he thinks, but he needs to be far from here for his jittery nerves to settle. Distance is like water on his parched tongue.

The man is babbling, his voice more jubilant than Lovino remembers. He introduces himself.

"Antonio Carriedo." Spanish?

The name is like an offering. As much as Lovino wants to push past, letting the name and all it's implications fall behind him like a toppled tray, he can feel himself accepting.

"Lovino." He spits it like the seed of something sour.

Antonio is smiling now, pleased with the exchange. Lovino prays he does not ask his last name. He hates how images of his grandfather flash behind his eyes, the association with "Vargas" too strong for him to voice without wincing.

It's too late now though. He is thinking about it, about his grandfather, the gallery, the paintings, _Feliciano,_ and he needs to escape before he chokes. The gum in his hands is shaking. No. His whole body is shaking.

Lovino bolts.

There is a cry of protest, downed out by the sound of blood in his ears as Lovino speedwalks down the sidewalk. He has never been able to be polite like others wanted him to. It has been a long time since he cared. He can't say he does now, but something about that carefree face is reminding him of a time when there was someone who understood what he meant when he scowled and swore, and it _aches_ more than he cares to admit.

Hours later, and Lovino stands on his balcony, leaning against the precarious railing. His hands droop lifelessly over the metal like unwatered flowers, the rest of his body hunched against the wind.

He called in to the bar tonight, exhaustion coating every fiber of his being like the ash entombed figures of Pompeii. Not even the sharp wind is cutting through.

If someone were to ask, he would be able to give plenty of reasons why he ran. He was tired of being there, he was cold, he was busy, some _asshole_ was harassing him on the street. But in the quiet cold of the night, he is left alone with only the truth of his thoughts, and he knows that it is nothing like that. The taste of Antonio's name on his tongue tingles, and his laughter burns his ears. Fear has coiled with something else in his belly, and at the root of his exhaustion he wishes the wind would blow it all away, until the cold allows him to feel numb again.

 _I'm so sorry for the terrible delay, and for the fact that this chapter is also incredibly short! Life has sort of gotten in the way of things aha, but anyway. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, it never fails to make me smile. And of course thank you, as always, for reading!_


	10. Chapter 10

The gallery is just as it appeared from the outside. It smells lightly of cut wood and canvas, a tendril of vanilla from the freshener behind the reception desk twisting tantalizingly through the air. Antonio finds himself in front of a medium sized painting towards the back. While many artists have multiple images hanging in sections around the room, this appears to be the only one of its kind. Something about it is enrapturing though. Colors he has never seen before seem to whisper of passion and violence, rough brush strokes streaking across the page like slices into flesh. He is captivated.

A faint awareness of someone behind him pulls Antonio from his daze, and he turns to find the pale haired man he had seen not so many days ago behind him.  
"Is there anything I can help you with today?" He asks, his voice nearly overpowered by the soft hum of the air filter. It is calming though, somehow, and Antonio smiles kindly.  
"As a matter of fact, I do have a question for you! I see this picture here is painted by a...Lovino Vargas?" He checks the innocuous card fastened to the wall, as though the name hasn't been on the tip of his tongue for nearly a week already. The blond man nods.

"Well I was hoping to get some contact information for him, if possible. I'm really interested in seeing his other work." The excuse is easily justified to Antonio, as none of it is really a lie. Perhaps the only thing he is leaving out is that his desire to see the small, gruff man again was born of more personal feelings than those inspired by the violent painting on the wall.

By the time Antonio is back in his own apartment, the corners of the small white card in his pocket have been worn down by his fingers running over the edges, as though to confirm its reality. He is surprised the ink has not been smeared by the nervous sweat of his palms, as he holds it up to the fading daylight. The number is printed carefully, the blond man who's name Antonio had already forgotten having checked it twice to confirm. He really is an asset to the place, the brown haired man thinks to himself, the tail end of the sentiment already dissipating from the heat of a more burning pursuit.

Antonio cannot call that night. Cannot make himself pick up the phone for fear that when the line opens his throat will close.

At the supermarket, the brown haired man finds his days passing in a fog. His hands work on autopilot, tagging and stacking until someone comes to tell him that his break started 10 minutes ago, or his shift is over. Fantasies of meeting dance through his head, though he can't explain why. A man he hardly knows, who surely smells of smoke and gum, and speaks as though he has never uttered a kind word in his life, is taking over his mind. A stake had been pressed into the ground by fumbling fingers, clenching themselves around a mint flavored pack.

He sees the shorter man in every head of brown hair that turns abruptly down an aisle, hears him in every muttered curse.

The well worn paper sits perched like a dead butterfly on Antonio's knee. Black ink blurs in his eyes as he stares, the numbers becoming letters, and outlines of hazel eyes. Work was long today. Bloodshot eyes find themselves wandering upwards, finding purchase on the cracked and faded wallpaper of the rundown place. What was once perhaps yellow has faded into something sickly, tiny flowers dotting the surface.  
He is remembering when his walls were decorated with baseball cards and players, and pictures of family whose faces were the only thing familiar. He is hearing the echo of soft music the living room, the feeling of warmth from a hand brushing the hair from his face as he feigns sleep.  
But then with a rush of heat, he is smelling smoke. His fingers are reaching for the phone before he can stop them, some terrible sense of loss and hope coming to blows inside him as he presses forcefully, digit by digit. _What more is there to lose?_

 _Hello, again. I'm posting them sort of in a pair again, hooray! No promises for where the story is going, where it will end up, how long it will take etc. but regardless, I hope you enjoy along the way . Thanks for reading!_


	11. Chapter 11

When did Lovino stop expecting someone to call? He doesn't remember when the sense of another presence in his life eventually faded into memory, the silent phone becoming not a reminder but rather a comfort. This was the new reality for him. Loneliness his new family, to replace the one he left behind.

Which is why the trilling ring of a phone that hasn't been touched for nearly three days pierces through the shroud of silence coating his dark apartment, Lovino finds himself frozen. The only ones who should have his number are his landlord and his boss, neither of whom would be calling so late. Not since he called in for a few days off work.

With the way things with the new gallery were going, he was finding that he actually had a need to paint for something more than himself.

The phone was still ringing, pinching him awake. Something akin to fear ran down his spine, and he quenched it with self loathing. What was there to be afraid of, he scoffed at himself. _They couldn't call you if they wanted to._

Lovino is sure to steady his voice when he answers, curt and cutting.

"What." There is breathing on the other end of the line. He hears the sharp intake of breath when he answers, followed by the soft ebb and flow of air through someone's lungs. The beat of silence is more unsettling now, in the dark, than it would be in the daytime. Lovino will never admit he is afraid. Not of the dark, but what lurks in it.

"Hello…is this Lovino Vargas?" The voice is hesitant, but perhaps familiar. Lovino doesn't like that they know his name.

"Yeah, who the fuck is this?" His voice is steady. He is angry, very angry. And not at all afraid.

"Oh, haha. Sorry about that. This is Antonio...Carriedo. We met on the street a few days ago? And in the park before that…"

"...How the fuck did you get this number?"

"The gallery you were in? I asked them for your contact information. Sorry, I hope that wasn't inappropriate of me." It is hard to reconcile the sincerity of his voice with the laughter behind it. Lovino can practically hear the smile dripping from his every syllable, as though he is just _too_ happy to be speaking like this.

It is gnawing at his insides, that happiness, that _voice._ And a memory of a sad eyed man in a park, bags at his feet like disciples, keeps pushing at the back of his eyelids, reminding him that the story to pour from between those smiling lips is filled with something other than joy. Lovino wonders if that isn't worse.

"They shouldn't be giving my number out to strangers."

"Don't blame them, I said I was interesting in discussing your paintings! I saw the one you have hung up there, it's very nice. I don't know much about art, honestly, but I think you must be really talented." _Why didn't it sound like a lie from him?_

"Bullshit." Lovino presses a palm to his burning cheek, willing it to cool.

"No really! I couldn't look away, it was...awe inspiring."

"...What do you want?" Another twist in his stomach. _Why not just hang up?_

"I was wondering if you might like to get lunch sometime?" Such a casual request, it feels out of place. Lights from a passing car drift lazily across the ceiling, an ephemeral sun streaking across an eggshell sky. It seems hours have passed when it finally sets, the drone of the engine dissipating back into darkness.

"Hello?" Lovino has not answered, letting the invitation sit cooling between them. Even opening his mouth, he does not know what to say until the syllables have already tumbled into existence.

"Ok."

"Great!" There is no mistaking the tone of relief, even through the staticked line. "Maybe this weekend? I have to work during the week." The idea of the man working doesn't fit somehow. Another grunted affirmative lets the one sided conversation flow into details and arrangements.

The hazel eyed man has the vague impression of flavors being discussed, prices for plates and places, the atmosphere of a small cafe downtown. He is picky, a discerning palate born of his Italian heritage, but he does not wish to divulge even that much yet.

When the phone flips closed, the snap echoing in the barren room, a date has been chosen and a location set.

The man's fingers are sweaty, and his ear tingles with the lingering sensation of a lilting voice, and a laugh that dances just a little too close to the sun for comfort.

 _Apologies for the lack of update consistency. Still no plan for this, but for anyone keeping up with it, rest assured it will be continued! Too much fun not to keep writing. Thanks for reading!_


	12. Chapter 12

Antonio had always been the boy with the best smile, the one whose laugh was contagious and spread through those gathered around him like a virus. There was never a cold shoulder, warm bodies on either side of him at all times. It was easy for him, the boy with natural, good natured charm.

Yet he doesn't think he has ever felt so alive as he does now, crouched down in the cereal aisle, fingers twitching with every second it draws nearer to closing. There is fire in his veins, rushes of heat that have been washing over him in intervals since that night.

He had picked up the phone with abandon, expecting nothing and wishing for everything with the sort of morbid hope that twists tighter round your neck with every loss. His hands had been steady when he punched the numbers in, but they are surely shaking enough now to make up for it. Tonight is the night he will see him again. _Lovino._

It was too fast. Antonio can feel it, the way his feet are slipping on the edge of a dangerous precipice. He is already too invested, too absorbed in the fantasy that is Lovino. The way his voice sounded, rough and smooth over the muffled phone line sends shivers down Antonio's spine just remembering. It is all too fast.

As the second hand finally hits twelve though, the brown haired man already ripping off his crimson smock cannot bring himself to care. _Tonight is the night._

There is sweat gathering on his palms already, still blocks away from where they agreed on. Antonio doesn't remember most of the conversation. He feels his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, and he wonders how he was ever able to force the invitation out so smoothly in the first place.

He knows the faint echo of Spanish music, drifting across an abandoned courtyard is meant to soothe him, and for a moment he allows it. The way the melody winds around him like a friend with a story to tell is familiar, reminding him that he came from somewhere.

He has a fantasy of dancing to this tune, body in sync with a shorter, brown haired man before him. He imagines how they will move together, stirring the air like a batter and cooking it with their heat.

But there is the man himself, standing on the corner, and Antonio doesn't need to push the fantasy from his mind because it is already blank.

His dark coat overwhelms him, his fingers just poking out from beneath the too-long sleeves, an olive scarf engulfing his neck. His black shoes are scuffed from where he has been shuffling along the curb, head turned to look down the busier side of the street. His forehead is creased into a scowl, brows pushed together almost comically.

When his lips part to let out a breath that steams in the cold air though, Antonio's own mouth opens not in laughter but in awe.

Then their eyes are meeting, and it is hard to translate the look that flits across the other's face.

Odd how easily the boy so good with people has been undone.

For the first time in a long time, Antonio doesn't remembering telling himself to put the smile on his face.

"Sorry to keep you waiting!" He wonders vaguely why he is breathless in that moment, why laughter threatens to pour out of him, bubbles in his chest floating upwards until he is almost afraid they might carry him away.

"You should be, bastard. It's fucking cold out." He does laugh now, his eyes crinkling like tissue paper at the corners.

"I'll have to make it up to you then! Come on, I'll show you the restaurant. It's always warm." The well bundled man nods shortly, kicking the sidewalk with his first step as though reminding it to lay flat before him. Antonio does not know why he finds it so endearing.

The restaurant elicits no response from the shorter man, and Antonio swallows the small pill of disappointment. It is one of his favorites, a place that reminds him of his mother. He imagines she would have liked it here, the music and the lights that illuminated bright paintings on the wall.

Perhaps he should have chosen somewhere else for Lovino, some place fancier, or less personal.

They are sitting now though, Lovino finally shrugging off the coat much like an insect would it's outer shell. He glances across the table towards Antonio, hazel eyes meeting chocolate ones for only a second as he nods.

"It is warm."

And suddenly Antonio feels it too, the unbelievable warmth of the place, blooming inside him and spreading to the tip of every digit. And he is smiling so wide his cheeks hurt, aching in commissary with his pounding heart.

"Yes." Again, he is breathless. "Very warm."

 _Hello again~ To Errui, thank you so much for your lovely review! It made me very happy AND motivated me to get another chapter out . Thank you all so much for reading!_


	13. Chapter 13

Lovino has been distracted at work. His boss has noticed, pressed him lightly for details, told him to concentrate. He finds it more difficult than he will admit.

The eyes reflected in the glass in Lovino's hand are distinctly more green than his own. He scrubs harder at the offensive material, as though to wipe clean his own memories as they taunt him from the tableware's rim.

Since that night, when the man turns too quickly he sees soft yellow lights blinking beneath his eyelids, and passing a street vender reminds him endlessly of the smell of Spanish food as it wafts into a cozy restaurant.

He repeats the words of Italian he grew up with, if only to catch a glimpse of their likeness to another language he will not admit to finding beautiful.

More than anything though, Lovino is angry at himself.

He should know better, he tells himself, repeating the words like a broken record mantra. He should know better than to get involved with anyone like this.

He picks carefully at old scabs, peeling the wounded flesh up just enough to remember the sting. _No one would want you._ Memories of his childhood, fleeting glimpses of Feliciano laughing on his grandfather's knee.

 _You are always second choice._ He scoffs disdainfully at his own derision, picking up a new glass to wipe clean of its past.

 _You're happy alone._ That was the real truth of the matter. Lovino was satisfied with his life, tied to no one, free to come and go as he pleased. Occasionally he forgot that his life was a set timer, ticking off the seconds til he was done. It was better that way, no expectations of a bright future to keep him from living in the moment; _painting_ in the moment.

Ten more translucent glass soldiers lined up single file behind the bar, and Lovino was tossing his rag and apron in the laundry bin at the back.

In the back he washes his hands twice, letting his mind wander. A woman had sat at the bar this evening, dark eyes following his every move. She had beckoned him over at one point, whispering her drink order like a secret in his ear. Her breath had been warm, tickling the hair at the back of his neck.

They had made eye contact, an exchange that needed no words to be perfectly clear.

"Tony! Hey buddy, how's it going?" Someone shouted across the bar, welcoming a new body into the building. And Lovino was suddenly frozen.

It was a short, balding, Italian man. That much was clear the instant Lovino had glanced fervently towards the newcomer. But the damage had already been done, and suddenly the feeling of a hastily scrawled number on a napkin, pressed damply into his palm was leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

He forced a smile at the woman as she moved to go, however, fervently hoping that the shift had gone unnoticed.

The napkin would end up wadded at the end of his shift, pressed down to the bottom of his apron pocket to be tossed into the laundry, the ink bleeding into weathered, matted paper.

The early hues of gray and blue that signified the dawning of the early morning found Lovino huddled just inside his front door, shoes still on and jacket still pulled tightly around his small frame. His sweaty palms are clenched around the ends of his sleeves.

He feels like a Russian nesting doll, different versions of himself stacked upon each other until he doesn't know which one to trust anymore.

What was it Antonio had said at the restaurant? Something about seeing him again, _wanting_ to see him again. The words are circling in Lovino's mind like birds he can't catch and pin down. In the midst of the chaos he wonders if it's alright for him to want this.

 _Many apologies for this being late (to anyone still reading), and for the fact that this chapter doesn't especially move anywhere with the plot. As always, there isn't really a plan, I'm just writing as I go, so we'll see what happens! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed thus far, they are always much appreciated, and as always, thanks for reading!_


	14. Chapter 14

A feeling suspended somewhere between anxiety and joy has been nipping at Antonio all week. It grips at his wrists, and pulls at his chest when he least expects it. He feels balanced precariously on the edge of a cliff, tip toeing forwards so the wind doesn't notice to blow him off.

The meeting with the Italian went well. Antonio thinks it did anyway, though the darkness when he closes his eyes to sleep tells a different story, dredging up memories of harsh words that were never exchanged, and expressions of disgust in hazel eyes that he can't quite shake.

He finds himself leaping when his phone rings, only to be disappointed by an added shift at work, a telemarketer, a wrong number.

But after so many days, what bliss is that voice on the other side of the line, finally calming the rabid itching that has been raging beneath his skin.

"It doesn't matter if you want to see me again, I don't give a shit." An odd way to invite someone, surely, but Antonio doesn't mind. He is singing in his head, a song that reminds him of hope and happiness, and for once it doesn't sound bitter, overshadowed by darker things.

"It would be great to see you again, I would love that!" _Too enthusiastic?_ Antonio doesn't want to scare the boy away.

"How is Friday? After 9, if possible..?"

"Can't."

"Oh...Saturday?"

"Not all of us have the weekend off, for christ's sake."

"I see! Then perhaps Monday night, after 9 would be better?"

"Fine."

The rest of the conversation is a wash of words, Antonio requesting that Lovino pick the restaurant, offering to buy even as his hand clenches in his empty pocket. He wishes he were richer, so he might offer the extravagance of a better life to the painter. If only he had worked harder, believed that someday there would be a reason for it.

By the time the call is over, Antonio's cheeks are sore from smiling. He has spent the conversation nodding at ghosts, even though he knows the other man can't see his gestures he cannot help himself.

He falls back against the mattress, letting the rush of air sweep out the cobwebs that fester in his mind. When his eyes close, the faint smell of cigarette smoke tickles his nose like a clouded fantasy, and he knows he is smiling again because his face is aching, protesting this joy to which he is so unaccustomed.

Antonio lies there until time has melted into itself like a pool of butter, before finally crawling still fully dressed under the rough blanket and letting himself drown its yellow depths.

It is shocking what having something to look forward to can do for a person, and yet Antonio hardly seems to notice as he moves almost gracefully between aisles. He is making empires of cans now, armies of tin men lining row upon row of shelving. He is humming as he works, and the smiles he gives people who glance down, if only to avoid stepping on him, are less forced than before. Some even return them.

The smock is cherry red, but now it reminds him of sweet things. Hard candies and red licorice so strong he can feel the memory of a sting on his tongue even now. He buys a package on his break, and has to close his eyes at the flavor of it.

It's as he remembered it, and sends him back to sitting on the steps of the small apartment, watching the older children ride by on their bikes, dodging parked cars and overweight women with small dogs.

He stays there for a while, on that step. The only thing that brings him back is the smell of the break room, and the vivid sense that for once he has something worth coming back for.

Four more days.

 _Another update! A little short maybe, but for whatever reason I was having trouble writing Antonio for this segment. Lovino's part is coming more easily aha, so that might be coming fairly soon, fingers crossed._

 _Thank you so much to both of you who reviewed!_

 _The Forgotten Traveller, your reviews made me so happy! I've so glad you're enjoying the story, and I'm glad it's relatable. Writing it is sort of therapeutic for me, so I wouldn't be surprised if things end up in the story like that. If you do notice anything for constructive criticism, please do let me know! Your last comment was very helpful.*thank you for pointing out the typo, and I'm so sorry about misspelling your name!_

 _And Guest, I have updated, and hope to again soon! It means a lot that you're keeping track of my little story :)_

 _As always, I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading!_


	15. Chapter 15

Lovino rationalized it by saying he didn't give a shit. _Doesn't_ give a shit. He can do whatever he damn well pleases, these meetings don't mean anything to him, just a way to pass the time, count down the moments until self destruction.

So he chooses to spend time with Antonio, the poor, lonely, stupid man who doesn't know better than to touch a fire and get burned.

 _Doesn't he know it will hurt him?_

Lovino doesn't care though. He tells himself that repeatedly, reciting it like a sacred mantra as he shrugs on his coat, makes his way down the stairs. He tells himself it doesn't matter, it's just a way to get distraction, booze, food from a man who will pay for it, and what does Lovino care if the man smiles when he sees him, like the color has finally come to him in a world of black and white.

He doesn't care, that's what.

So they meet again, a new place this time, somewhere Lovino chooses because it is authentic and Italian, and makes him feel like he comes from somewhere without having to acknowledge anything.

The smell of the sauce as it wafts into the seating area from the kitchen stings the carefully covered wound, it's beautiful red pigment bleeding onto the pasta, colors mixing like Lovino's own flesh and blood.

He takes a sip of water and beckons the waiter over for something stronger.

"Do you come here a lot?" Antonio is asking questions now, leaning forwards with his chin resting on his hand. Something about his expression reminds Lovino of when he used to go to church, watching the awe on the faces of the devout as they stared into nothing and saw God.

"No." A cruel God he would be. Lovino almost scoffs at his own thoughts. Antonio is just a stupid man. _He probably looks that way at gum on the sidewalk._

But the taller man persists, his green eyes flickering in the candle in the center of the table. It mesmerizes Lovino for a moment, he is trapped in the shifting colors. The eyes are said to be the window to the soul, but all Lovino can see is his own reflection in shades of green.

He has to look away.

"You're Italian, right?" The man is so curious about nothing, Lovino thinks.

"Obviously." _With a name like Lovino._

"Do you cook?" Lovino's eyes narrow, and he takes a swig of the wine that's been poured for them. It's bitter, and red, and heavy on Lovino's tongue. But that's what he wants.

"What do you think?"

He doesn't, anymore. Just one more thing he doesn't want to think about.

The conversation is slow. Pulling words from Lovino is like pulling teeth from a carcass, and he feels just as empty each time Antonio sighs and looks away. There is a jolt of something too close to guilt and too close to fear for Lovino's comfort, and he swills wine just to get it to _stop._

He doesn't see the way Antonio looks at him when he picks at his food, or the fond smile he gives when the shorter man says something, _anything._

Antonio laughs when it's not appropriate. Lovino isn't joking, but his companion is laughing, like they are on opposite sides of a glass pane. Lovino doesn't want to break through though. Antonio might hear him, might see him clearly, and he wouldn't be laughing then.

The end of the night comes abruptly. The pasta was delicious, but Lovino could hardly stomach it. The smell was choking him, even as wine slid freely down his throat. He wonders if he drank enough to throw up later. The stain of red would look like blood.

Antonio is standing in the cold with him, hailing a taxi? No, Lovino can walk. The taxi passes them, and Lovino scowls at the thought that the driver might be relieved not to have to pick him up.

There is a reason he always drinks alone.

There is a warm hand on his back as he climbs the stairs to his apartment, a warm arm holding his body up as he fishes for his keys. His pockets feel like goldfish bowls, pennies like pebbles settled at the bottom. He sees the man with chocolate hair raise an eyebrow at the wad of ones that falls out, and he bristles.

"They're tips, you dickwad, I'm a bartender." The man's face is too blurry to see how he reacts.

Why would Lovino care anyway. He doesn't.

Falling face first into his mattress that night, that last things Lovino remembers feeling are the cold patches on his body where someone's hand used to be, and the heat of his own shame.

 _So...it didn't take as long as I thought to update ahaha writing Lovino really is easier!_

 _Anyhoo, I used up all my note material on the last chapter, so I hope you enjoyed this one. Thank you for reading!_


	16. Chapter 16

It was simultaneously nothing and exactly as he expected. Antonio can still feel the weight of the smaller man's body in his arms from when he hoisted him up to his apartment, can still smell the scent of paint tinged with old liquor that perfumes the inside. He finds himself speculating on his own fascination with this man who clearly does not have his own life together, as much Antonio has scorn for his own.

He wonders idly if it comes from admiration.

 _Lovino._

The name brings to mind bitter caramels, melting on Antonio's tongue. Such a combination of flavor that he cannot hardly name it, nor stand it, but he finds himself compelled to find more.

The date went poorly. It's a scene in a bad movie, played over and over again in his mind, at home at work and everywhere in between. He sees himself running out of things to say, and Lovino rolling his eyes and looking for better things to amuse himself with. He sees Lovino drinking just to stay occupied, and he sees his own hands, pulling shut the door to the man's apartment. The click of the latch echoes like a bad omen.

And yet. _Is it too soon to call again?_

Antonio's phone rings, and for a moment his heart leaps to his throat, suffocating him as he reaches for it. But the voice on the other end is nostalgic, and he feels a prick of guilt for the brief wave of disappointment that washes over him.

"Antonio? Are you there, my friend?"

"Yes, Francis, sorry. Hi!" He recovers quickly, forcing cheer to his voice for the sake of an old friend, and finding it come more naturally with each word.

The conversation is brief, a catch up after so many months. Francis has been visiting family, he says, drinking good wine and eating decadent feasts as he gazes off the balcony at the water. But he is back now.

"I will be in town soon, we must catch up!" It brings a small smile to Antonio's face, the certainty with which Francis speaks, as though he has never had to question the stability of the ground beneath his feet.

"Of course, Franny, I would love to. It's been too long."

They exchange pleasantries, casual inquiries. When Francis asks how his friend is doing romantically, as he always does, Antonio feels his heart catch in his throat. But then he is gulping it down, the pause hardly noticeable among his lackadaisical ways of speaking.

Lovino is still a secret. Maybe forever, with the way things have been going. Antonio justifies it to himself after the call has ended, that it's hardly worth sharing at this point; the one date that ended poorly, with a man with apricot lips and wild eyes.

In the shadows of this rationale though, there is a sense of privacy. The memories of Lovino, for all their bitter tobacco scent, are his. He isn't ready to share them, for fear they will be diluted in the light, and washed away to something pale and trivial.

The ceiling is gray when Antonio lies back, staring at the pattern of water stains and texture until he sees white.

Antonio leaves early for work the next morning, exhausted and unable to sleep. The streets are quiet still, blue emanating from every crevice in the cold light. His fingers twitch in his pockets like matches, flicking against each other to create warmth. Something about it though, is enough to clear his dazed mind.

As though the fog has been wiped from his lenses, he sees the cracks in the pavement clearly, and the dirty brick he passes each day has somehow become something new. Lovino has subsided into a gentle murmur against the tinted sky, and Antonio lets his mind wander to other things.

 _I guess I have to apologize for the incredible late update. Real life kind of took over, and I can't devote the same kind of time as I used to, but for anyone still kind enough to be following this, don't worry it's not abandoned! New chapters should come out periodically. Thank you so much for your patience, and of course thank you for reading!_


End file.
